


Cutting Losses

by DisposalUnit



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Whump, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Infanticide, Loneliness, Sad, evil!Root
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposalUnit/pseuds/DisposalUnit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch is used to losing people whom he cares about.</p><p>The team convinces him to care about one more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutting Losses

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place near the end of Season 2.
> 
> Warnings: Off-page death of an infant. On-page handling of infant’s body. Contains brief, non-explicit reference and auditory flashbacks to non-consensual sexual encounters.

“What do you need?” Fusco muttered into his cell.

“It’s nice to hear your voice, too, Lionel.” Reese smiled, letting extra gravely creepiness seep into his words. He never got tired of this. It was a sunny morning, quite pleasant for February, and he was peacefully pretending to read a newspaper at a bus stop. Tormenting Fusco was icing on the cake. “Shouldn’t you greet me with more enthusiasm?”

“Look, it’s already the worst kind of day here. I’m either going to punch a wall or break down any second now. So don’t fuck around with me. I’m in no mood.” A pause for breath. “Just tell me what you need.”

Fusco, too stressed for a little friendly intimidation? “Maybe I’d better call Carter,” John muttered as he turned to the sports section, deciding to drop the Lionel-baiting for the time being. “Or is she having a similarly bad day?”

“Same case, same bad day. Just lay it on me already. I could use the distraction.”

Reese’s attention was momentarily taken by the new Number, Denise Weston, as she stepped out of her apartment building, across the street. He pretended to look at a text message on his second phone and casually strolled after her. “I need the case file from a murder back in April of ‘92. Victim was a Randall Weston.”

“All right. Never thought I’d relish the idea of digging through dusty file boxes for a few hours, but today’s the day. I’ll text you when I’ve found it and we can meet up.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Reese said respectfully as he approached the subway stairs that Denise had just disappeared down. “I hope your day gets better.”

“It’s not likely to,” Fusco sighed, hanging up without a further word.

\-----------------

Finch was taking a much-needed break from research, taking the ever-patient Bear for a much-needed walk. The threat relating to their current Number was proving difficult to identify.

But he would continue digging just as soon as Bear was finished depositing.

His phone rang, startling him out of his thoughts. Unknown number. That was rarely good. He pressed the button to answer and held the phone to his ear, giving no greeting.

“Harold…” The voice was female. Upset. Crazed.

“Miss Groves.” The words washed through his clenched teeth with whispered rage.

“I had thought you were superior code for my purposes, Harold. I should have considered that your capacity for perfect transfer had expired.”

He knew Root was crazy, but speaking in riddles was a new behavior. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Finch hissed, “and I don’t--”

“--This was all your fault!” she screamed, quite uncharacteristically. “I’m not investing any more of my resources in developing your code’s flawed output.” The call ended.

Finch glared at his phone as though it were the one responsible for that unbalanced reprobate’s ranting. Bear whined and licked Finch’s other hand, wondering why his Other Alpha had stopped and become so tense in the middle of walkies.

“Bear, I hope you get the chance to bite that woman’s hand off, someday.” He sighed and shook his head. No, he didn’t, really. He had his ethics, though they did get in the way of a good revenge fantasy, on those rare occaisons when he would indulge in one.

Although… Considering what she’d put him through, what she’d done to him all those months ago, he decided that he was entitled.

“Just a severe bite wound to the hand would suffice, I suppose.”

\-----------------

Reese was only mildly surprised to find Carter waiting for him in the diner, along with Fusco. “Detectives. You both needed to get away from the office, I take it.”

Neither detective met his eyes. “Sit down, John,” Carter said softly, her own eyes puffy as though she’d had a serious cry earlier in the day. “We need to talk.”

John did as he was told, next to Carter.

Fusco cleared his throat. “I found that Weston file, by the way,” he said, sliding a manilla folder across the table to him. “But we’ve learned something on our own case that you should know about.”

“Oh?”

“Early this morning, a homeless man found a baby in a dumpster.” Carter explained in a near-whisper. “Dead. A newborn baby girl, just a couple of days old. Had Down’s syndrome, but looked healthy otherwise. Probably smothered, but the M.E. is doing the autopsy now and we’ll know for certain soon.” She stopped to sip her coffee, her eyes too bright with moisture for a few moments until she tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling and blink the tears away.

Now John knew what constituted the “worst kind of day” at the department. Looking down at his own interlaced fingers sadly, he couldn’t help but wonder what part of this tragedy related to him.

Fusco piped up to fill the pause. “We checked with hospitals about recent births and got a positive footprint match.”

Carter opened her folder and handed Reese a copy of a birth certificate while Fusco continued.

“All computer records of the mother and baby have disappeared. Medical records, billing records, the photos they took of the baby, everything. In their system, it’s like they never existed. But the paper documents are still around, thank goodness. The hospital staff remembered the mother coming in- She was all by herself. No partner, no family.”

He watched as Reese scanned the document and, despite Reese’s carefully practiced poker face, could tell when Reese had seen the really interestng part. “Not surprisingly, we can’t find any record of either of those people listed as the child’s parents. The other detectives are assuming the mother used a fake ID and just made up the name of the father.”

Reese couldn’t speak. It was a lie. Definite misinformation. Root was up to something.

 _Grace Jane Turing_ , eight pounds, four ounces. _Caroline Turing_ , mother.

 _Harold Finch_ , father. 

“Is it really his?” Fusco asked.

“No,” snorted Reese, folding the page and putting it an inner pocket of his jacket. “Caroline Turing is Root. I don’t know why she would list Finch as the father, but it’s safe to assume she’s lying.”

Carter nodded. “We figured as much, but we had to ask. That woman… I knew she was crazy evil, but this is a whole new level. To kill her own baby…”

Reese shook his head in dismay. “I don’t understand it, either. She already looks down on humanity for its shortcomings. And now she’s ‘bad code,’ herself.”

“Bad code?” asked Fusco.

“Finch says that she thinks humans are flawed, compared to the perfection of computers,” Reese sighed. “Human failings are a result of their ‘bad code.’”

Carter and Reese could practically see a light bulb turning on above Fusco’s head. “Bad code, like genetics?” Fusco asked pointedly.

“Oh my god.” Carter whispered, the answer dawning on her, as well.

Reese looked away under the pretense of scanning the room for threats. Down’s syndrome. Root’s own baby had merely been ‘bad code’ to her. 

Fusco stared down at his barely-touched cup of coffee. “Root would have known about the Down’s a long time ago if she’d done any of the regular pre-natal testing. Guess she thought her own code was too perfect to need it.”

\-----------------

“Welcome back, Mr. Reese.” Finch didn’t look up from the monitors as he tapped away at the keyboard. “I wasn’t able to listen in on your meeting with Detective Fusco, as it was necessary for me to speak with Weston’s employer to gain some insight into her social life, but the operation was successful.” Hearing no response from John, but still not tearing his eyes from the monitors, he prodded “I trust the detective was able to get you the Randall Weston file?”

“Here.” He set the folder on the edge of the desk and remained standing just a couple of feet away. How to ask…

Finch finally slowed his typing, but did not look up at his partner. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Reese?”

Geronimo. “When did Root find out about Grace?”

Harold’s head shot up with alarm, eyes wide and focused solely on John. “As far as I know, she hasn’t.” He winced slightly without breaking eye contact and reached to touch the pain he’d caused in his neck with the sudden movement. “Why? Do you believe she has?”

Reese unfolded the birth certificate copy and handed it to him. “Carter and Fusco are working the death of an infant. Apparently, ‘Caroline Turing’ had a baby girl and then smothered her soon after, possibly because the baby had Down’s syndrome. She listed you as the father. And she’d named the girl Grace.”

Harold’s face went pale as he listened to John’s words and read the certificate.

_“Poor Harry. You’re so tense. Luckily, I know just how to fix that.”_  
_“What are you doing?! Stop that!”_  
_“Relax. I’m going to help you release some of that tension.”_

His stomach turned.

_“No! Stop this immediately!”_  
_“Settle down, Harold. If you raise your voice again, you know I’m going to hurt someone.”_

His hands trembled slightly, the paper in his hands amplifying the movement.

_“Why are you doing this? Please, stop!”_  
_“Stop fighting it, Harry. You know this feels good. Relax and enjoy it.”_

Is that what- Had it- Yes, it had been that long since he’d been kidnapped. So that was why she’d done that… The call- She’d meant- No...

_“Stop it! Please! No-”_

His face flushed red with shame, tears welling.

_“There we go. All done. Now, don’t you feel better, Harry?”_

“Finch? Are you okay?”

“...Mr. Reese, I find myself struggling to find words.”

“I don’t blame you. Do you have any idea why she’d list you as the father?”

A long pause as Finch removed his glasses and rubbed at the inner corners of his eyes. “I would surmise that she did because it is true.”

For a moment, Reese wasn’t sure he’d heard that right.“What?”

“In all liklihood, it was my daughter.” The glasses were folded now and set next to the keyboad. Finch looked odd without them. Vulnerable. Like a different man.

Reese took a seat across from Finch, reeling. “Wait-- When she was holding you captive, you two--?”

“Mr. Reese, I most certainly did not!” Finch shouted, though he immediately reigned his anger in. He looked down, hands flat on the desk in a subconscious effort to flatten his affect. “I w-would not, with her.” He stammered, his strangely-naked face red with embarassment and rage at the memories, wet with sweat and and spilling tears in the cool library air.

In the most dangerous and stressful of situations, John had never seen Finch like this. He sat silently, not sure what to say.

“For much of the time I was alone with her, I was bound to a chair…” Finch closed his eyes and turned his seat away from John, unable to face even the blurry sight of him while he tried to regain his composure. “There was … _manual stimulation_. Completely against my will. But despite the traumatic nature of these experiences, my physiological responses were beyond my control.”

John leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees and hang his head. “God, Finch. I’m sorry.”

A ragged sigh. “I’d- I’d thought all this time that her actions were merely a method to humiliate and abase me. I should have suspected that she had an ulterior motive. She kept talking about how she had been waiting for someone like me.

“Looking back, I suppose she planned to produce a child that combined her intelligence with my own, and then raise it to view the world the way she does. I should have made the connection between… _what she did to me_ … and the hints of her desire for a eugenic solution to what she sees as the world’s problems.”

John swallowed despite his mouth feeling dry. “I’m so sorry I didn’t find you in time.”

Finch finally looked back at him. “You did more than I ever could have hoped, John. And I’m eternally grateful. Please don’t blame yourself for what happened.”

John nodded. “Harold, if you ever want to talk… You know that I’m here. Similar things have happened to a lot of men in my former line of work, when they’ve been held captive. And there are resources out there for male survivors of sexual assault.”

At this, Finch wiped his eyes and nose with a handkerchief, unfolded his glasses, replaced them on his nose and resumed his work, tapping away at the keyboard in staccato bursts, his lips a tight line.

“Finch?”

“I’m fine now, Mr. Reese. I’d like you to focus now on our current Number, as well as on ensuring Grace’s personal safety. I’ll try to track Root so that she can be taken into custody for infanticide.”

John sighed. He really hadn’t expected Finch to go along with the idea, but he still had to try. “We could also talk about the loss of your daughter.”

Finch stopped typing. “Mr. Reese, five minutes ago I had no idea that a child with my genetic contribution ever existed. I didn’t spend months anticipating the infant’s birth, nor did I see her. The child’s number didn’t even come to my attention through the Machine. So why should the death of this infant affect me more than the unfortunate death of any other?”

“Because she was your daughter.”

Finch snorted. “She was only my daughter in that a madwoman made me an unwilling participant in her conception. And I do not wish to discuss this matter further.” He reached for his cellphone and began inputting information, his thumbs flying. “Now, please head to the address I’m about to send you. Ms. Weston is on the way to dinner with a group of old high school friends at a tapas bar, and it might be enlightening if we could access the phones of those in attendance.”

\-----------------

Carter resisted the temptation to roll her eyes as she answered her ‘other’ cellphone, ducking into the homicide division’s coffee nook, where she was headed with her mug anyway. Last cup of the night. “What do you need, now, John?”

Sounds of muffled traffic noise could be heard, followed by “I was wrong.”

Well, that was unexpected, coming from him. “Wrong about what?”

“Finch was the father.”

“You gotta be shitting me!” She slammed her cup a little roughly on the counter and noticed that guys in the bullpen were glancing at her. She lowered her voice. “Do you mean to tell me that when we were out there risking our lives to rescue your partner, running our asses all the way to Buttfuck, Texas, and back, he was having-”

“Joss!” Reese grimaced. He waved a car ahead of him. “When Root had him captive, she…” He paused. Oh, how to put this… “She ‘obtained his genetic material’ by force and used it to impregnate herself. He’d thought the assault was just a sick mind game, but apparently she was trying to create a genius child.”

It took a few moments for Carter to process all of that. “Oh, Jesus. How’s he doing?”

“Not well. He doesn’t want to talk any more about it. Won’t even acknowledge that the loss of his daughter is something to grieve, since he didn’t know about her until now.”

“Is there anything I can do?” She filled her cup and opened a half-and-half capsule.

“Yes, actually. We need you and Fusco to help us keep an eye on someone. A Ms. Hendricks; lives at number three, North Washington Square.” He slammed the brakes and honked at the BMW that cut him off. “Root may be planning to go after her.”

A good reason to get out of the office. This day had been far too long already. “All right. So who is this lady? What’s Root want with her?” She poured the now-creamed coffee from her ceramic mug into a travel mug, topping it off with more hot joe from the pot and one more half-and-half.

“Sorry, but it’s not my story to tell. We’ll let you know someday, but now’s not the time.”

“You two and your secrets. I assume you’re out looking for Root?”

“Finch is trying to track her down. I’m running an errand related to another case, but the second he learns where she is, I’m dropping everything to go after her.” He waited for a woman with a baby stroller to leave the crosswalk before making a right turn. “Do you have enough to keep her locked up when we do find her?”

“More than enough.”

A very dark part of John was disappointed. If there were no non-lethal way to neutralize Root, he’d have an excuse to kill her. Somehow he knew that even after everything she’d done to Finch, no matter how much she deserved it, the gentle man wouldn’t want her harmed. “I’m on my way to Midtown, so if you or Fusco could start the watch on Ms. Hendricks, I’d appreciate it. Hopefully I’ll be able to relieve you sometime tonight.”

“Got it covered.” She snapped the lid on her travel mug, cringing at the inadvertant pun that John had no idea about. “Keep me posted about Root.”

“Will do. Thanks Joss.”

\-------------------------------------

_Days later…_

Root was gone. Finch had uncovered the information and Carter’s people in the department had confirmed it. Root was in Hong Kong, having travelled under a squeaky-clean alias but now off the grid in the criminal underground. Safely away from the reach of U.S. law enforcement.

Until she came back to the states, there was nothing any of them could do but mourn.

\-----------------

The loading dock of the long-empty warehouse stank of skunked beer and urine. It was a strange place to discuss funeral arrangements, to say the least, but she hadn’t notified the recluse of what subject was on the agenda for this meeting. Or that the real agenda was getting this man to even acknowledge his loss.

“Detective, you wished to see me?”

“Finch.” She wasn’t sure why she felt as nervous as she did. Being a cop had to be a harder job than being funeral director. More dangerous, at least. Maybe it was just that this particular case was personal. Sort of. “I’d like to discuss the final arrangements for your daughter.”

Finch didn’t look surprised, but he didn’t look cooperative, either. “I have no interest in the matter.” His eye twitched. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to discuss, or have I completely wasted my time in coming to meet you?”

Carter felt her face flush. “Y’know, I wonder if I’m the one wasting time caring what happens to this baby’s remains, if neither of her parents do.”

Finch’s poker face was briefly- ever so briefly- contorted in an expression of anguish before returning to stone. A sigh. “Why don’t you tell me about what’s being planned, Detective.”

“Well, it’s nothing fancy. The homicide task force has a fund. We all contribute toward paying for a little graveside service and burial for any unidentified or unclaimed child murder victim. Keeps the kids from going off to Potter’s Field and helps everyone in Homicide sleep a little better at night.”

“That’s very generous of you and your colleagues,” Finch said softly. Humbly. The billionaire’s daughter, a charity case.

She nodded once, looking off into the distance. “It’s not right that anyone should die without someone mourning their passing. And us cops are the closest thing to family these poor, lost babies have.” She looked back at the bespectacled man. “But we also do it so that all of us involved with the case can come together and acknowledge our grief. It’s healing for us to be able to lay the child to rest together.” 

Finch’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m sure it’s a very comforting experience.”

“Yeah, it is. And this time around I volunteered to be the one to pick out the specifics.” A pause. “Thought I’d get your input on the matter.”

A slight nod in reply.

She got out her work phone and pulled up a photo of a simple, white box, no bigger than a carry-on suitcase. A small floral arrangement of pink and white roses rested on top. “This was the casket we got the last time we buried an infant. The lining was white satin, but I don’t have a picture of that.” That case had to be closed casket. Still gave her nightmares, sometimes.

“It’s very nice.” A tremble in his voice.

“All right then. Do you want her to wear anything in particular? What color gown?”

“I’m sure that whatever you pick out will be fine, Detective.”

“Well, the usual choice for babies is white, but if she would have been anything like her father, I think our girl would have liked a little color.” She smiled gently at Finch’s periwinkle pocket square. “I’m thinking lavender. What do you say?”

“That sounds lovely.” He closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to sway slightly, as though he were losing his balance.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

She doubted that. Mission starting to be accomplished, at least. She continued. “We always have the department chaplin say a few words. Sometimes we read a poem or play music from someone’s iPod. Is there anyth-”

“‘ _You Are My Sunshine_.’ Gene Autry, if possible.”

Joss nodded and made a note in her phone, wondering at what she thought was a very un-Finch-like choice. And how she was going to explain the selection to her colleagues.

Finch turned away to gaze out from the darkness of where they were standing and up into the glowing silver haze blanketing the city sky. It should have been quite dark long ago, but the unusually low-hanging clouds were bouncing back enough city light to make the streets eerily lit. Surreal. Was this just a strange, terrible dream?

“Okay, Finch. I’ll make the arrangements. If you can think of anything else you’d like, let me know.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

Joss turned to leave, but stopped. Would he- It would be too much. He’d never- No, she had to ask. She just had to try.

_Sometimes it’s gotta hurt in order to heal._

“Finch?”

He turned to look at her again, his pale blue eyes now unabashedly sad.

“Do you want to see her?”

\-------------------------------------

The morgue seemed overly bright for three in the morning. Too many florescent lights in a place that could never not be somber.

Carter had kindly pulled some strings and asked some favors to clear the place of those few graveyard-shift guards who still populated the place at that hour. They were taking an extended coffee break on the other side of the building while she let a very important C.I., someone who could not be seen, say goodbye to someone. They trusted Carter and understood.

John offered a folding metal chair to Finch, who sat without thought or expression.

Joss found the correct refrigerated drawer, opened the door and pulled the drawer platform out, standing in the way so that Finch couldn’t see the drawer’s contents just yet. “John, could you give me a hand for a minute?”

John stepped to her side and together, silently, they managed to gently dress the limp little body in the cloth diaper and lavender bereavement gown that Joss had brought. After double-checking that the Y-incision from the autopsy was well-hidden by the gown, she put a lavender lace headband around the child’s head, to hide the stitches at the base of her skull. Then Joss wrapped the little girl in a pale yellow receiving blanket.

She stood facing away from Finch as she cradled the child, not wanting to subject him to the sight before he was prepared. A look over her shoulder. “You ready?”

When she got no response from the quiet man, John approached and put a hand on his shoulder. Finch was trembling ever so slightly. “Harold, are you ready for this?”

A slight nod. Then another, more emphatic nod, and a ragged intake of breath, his hands raising from his lap and toward the detective as she turned to face him, silently beseeching that he be allowed to hold his daughter.

In his mind, Harold was transported for a moment to a happier time, when he first held his honorary nephew, Will Ingram. Will had only been a few days old, sleeping constantly, making soft, needy noises even as he dozed in Harold’s arms. He’d held Harold’s finger in his tiny fist, with what Harold had thought was a surprisingly strong grip. An amazing, warm, little ball of baby. Nathan’s happiness had lit up the room.

There was none of that now.

The little body that Joss placed in his arms was still and so very cold. Her face, with flat little upturned nose and heavily-lidded, almond-shaped eyes, was tinged slightly blue from suffocation. She didn’t look like she was only sleeping, but, mercifully, she at least looked peaceful.

“Grace has hair like yours,” Joss said quietly as she crouched beside them, smiling despite the hot tears streaming down her face. She stroked the unruly shock of brown hair that crowned the child’s head, sticking up around the headband. No amount of brushing down with her fingers seemed able to tame it.

John crouched on Harold’s other side, taking in the sight of father and child as though he were revering the Pieta. The ache in his heart hurt more than being shot.

Finch hadn’t said a word, silently cradling the tiny form with great care, gazing at the little girl who would never grow up, who would never smile at the sight of her father. He took her limp hand in his, slipping his index finger into what should have been her tenacious grasp and closing her fingers around it.

His eyes filled, making his vision blurry until the tears gathered enough volume to spill out.

Carter slowly stood and nodded toward the door. Reese reluctantly followed her lead, giving Finch a gentle squeeze on the shoulder as they left the room to give him some privacy.

Harold didn’t even notice.

Warm memories of caring for baby Leila flooded his heart. Holding her close in the wearable baby carrier. Touching that soft hair. Bright eyes, tiny fingers, tiny toes. The smiles, the giggles, the squeals of delight. But in these daydreams Leila had been replaced by this child, his own very special daughter. Daydreams of memories that would never be made.

Grace.

Surely Root would not have chosen that name out of kindness. She had to have chosen that name after the girl was born and her condition became known, intended as a sort of secret insult to Harold’s fiance, that the baby bearing her name be intellectually disabled.

But there was no sweeter or more fitting name in the world for his daughter, Finch thought. The adult Grace radiated love and compassion. He liked to think this other little Grace would have been the same in that respect, despite any difficulties an extra copy of chromosome 21 might have caused her.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. I would have loved you, cherished you,” Harold whispered to the still form, gently stroking her cheeks as tears ran down his own, dripping onto the yellow blanket. “I would have found some way to give you a happy life, even if it meant me giving up everything else.”

It hit him that for her, and for her alone, he would have retired from saving the Numbers. He would have asked Reese to recruit Leon and Shaw to form a new team of saviors, so that he could leave with little Grace to some far-away land and be the father that she needed. He would have done anything for her.

And yet Root hadn’t even had the minimum of human decency to abandon the child alive. She didn’t want Grace, and no one else would be able to have her, either. Murdered and thrown out like garbage. Like a broken doll.

“You are so very deserving of love, Grace.” The tightness in his chest overwhelmed him and his words came out in spasmic sobs. “I just wish I could have provided it when you were alive.”

He pressed his lips softly against the little girl’s cold forehead, followed by his tear-moistened cheek as he hugged her little body to him. He cradled the back of her head in his palm as he rocked gently back and forth, over and over, quite illogically feeling the need to soothe an infant who was no longer suffering, who would never again feel anything at all.

After some time, enough of his immediate pain had been released that he could come back to his senses. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and awkwardly blew his nose with one hand as he continued to cradle the baby with his other arm. How long had he been holding her? Surely the guards would need to come back to the area before too long. He would have to leave soon.

The thought of leaving little Grace behind in this cold room...

He knew it was just an unfeeling body. He was being foolish. And yet the knowledge that he would never see her, nor feel her little body in his arms again was a knife in his heart.

Harold stood and gently placed the still form back on the metal morgue drawer-tray. As he smoothed her gown with his fingertips, he briefly felt the stitching of the Y-incision. It made his own skin crawl, and the knowledge that little Grace hadn’t been alive to feel what had been done to her body didn’t matter.

He swallowed back sudden nausea and tried to focus instead on memorizing every detail of her face, trying to imagine what she would have looked like alive-- If she were a warm, healthy pink instead of a cold gray-blue.

He stroked her hair, touched her little ears, smoothed her faint little eyebrows. Such a precious girl. Such a terrible loss. He would keep her in his heart until his dying breath.

He placed a tender kiss on her cold forehead once again, ever so softly.

“Daddy loves you, Grace. Now and always.”

He slowly and carefully closed the metal drawer, trying not to think about little body being in the dark inside, cold and alone.

The sound of the latch clicking made the empty, echoing room feel downright desolate, and made Finch feel more alone in the world than he ever had before.

\-------------------------------------

_“You’ll never know, Dear, how much I love you…”_

Gene Autry’s singing voice could barely be heard at such a distance across the cemetery, but Finch could hear the song in his mind with perfect clarity.

How many times had his mother switched on the record player just to hear that song, to sing along with it while holding her toddler son in her arms? Had she really done that so many times? Or perhaps he’d too often replayed in his mind that one clear memory he had of her.

Either way, the song had been special to her. His father would sometimes play that same record late at night, and weep loudly enough to wake a small boy.

And it was special to Harold. It made him remember that all-too-short time in his life when he felt safe and whole, when his mother was a warm physical presence and not a half-remembered dream. It reminded him of that happy, innocent time before he’d lost anyone he loved.

_“Please don’t take my sunshine away.”_

Finch turned away and headed toward the car, Mr. Reese following alongside him. He couldn’t bear to see the tiny casket being lowered into the ground, and John didn’t question his sudden departure. Finch was hardly aware of the passenger door being opened for him, or of Reese getting behind the wheel and slowly taking them away from the cemetery grounds.

“Where to?”

It took a moment for Finch to realize he was being addressed. “The library, I suppose.”

“Are you sure I can’t take you somewhere you can rest?”

“The library is home to me, Mr. Reese.” And the books his family.

\-------------------------------------  
_Days later…_

Reese set a USB thumb drive on the desk, near Finch. “Fusco asked me to give that to you.” He bent down to give Bear a final pat for the night then turned to leave. “Goodnight, Finch.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Reese.”

About half an hour after John’s footsteps had left the building, Finch saved his work one last time and loaded the flash drive to a quarantined drive of his workstation. Who knew what malware the tech-clueless detective had on his computer and had inadvertably infected the thumb drive with?

The drive was clean. And brand new, it appeared, except for one large image file, “adorable.tiff”. Oh dear, what on earth was Lionel sending him a picture of? If this was another cat photo with a badly-spelled caption in impact bold...

Harold’s breath caught. Little Grace. She wasn’t blue.

She looked asleep. Warm and pink. A proper newborn portrait, nothing sad or morbid about it. She looked as though she might wake up from her nap at any moment, all wrapped up and cozy in her lavender dress and yellow blanket.

She looked alive.

\---

Fusco answered on the first ring. “What can I do for ya?”

“I just want to thank you, Detective.” Fusco could hear the tears in Finch’s voice, even over the not-that-great cell connection. “That was very thoughtful. I am immensely grateful for your gift, and forever will be.”

“Yeah, well. There’s a guy over in robbery who does photography on the side, and he’s pretty good with Photoshop and stuff, too. Told him I know who the baby’s relatives are, but that we had to keep it hush-hush and couldn’t put it in the file because the witness protection program was involved. He owed me a favor. Not because of HR,” he hastily added.

“He does excellent work. Please give him my regards. Anonymously, of course.”

“Will do. You take care of yourself, Professor.”

“And you as well, Detective.”

\---

After ending the call, Finch copied the file to eight seperate remote, encrypted backups, and also to a pair of his own encrypted flash drives, which he secured in the wall safe. Then he made a smaller version of the photo, a size and resolution more suitable for screen display instead of the high-resolution image intended for printing, and saved it in the same desktop folder where he kept the treasured photo of himself with his beloved fiance.

He opened both photos, side by side, on the central monitor. His own happy face stared back at him from the screen, forever the recipient of an eternal kiss to the temple from the sweet, gorgeous Grace. She also looked out at him from the screen with a smile in her eyes. Meanwhile, Little Grace napped peacefully in the next window over.

A painful lump formed in his throat. The Harold on his desktop would always be happy. He was still with Grace. They were married by now, with a new baby!

The Harold on his desktop had a family.

The real Harold never would.

Finch closed the windows, initiated shutdown, and stood to retrieve Bear’s leash. He should head to one of his many apartments and get some rest. There would be more Numbers to save, if not tomorrow then the next day or the next.

The Numbers still had a chance to live happily ever after.


End file.
